He Remembers
by UnderCoverAnastacia
Summary: She is beautiful in the deadliest sense of the word. Bucky/Natasha I will go down with this ship.
1. Chapter 1

The last time he sees her out of the red room, he remembers everything: the war, the assassinations and the horrific events that took place inside those crimson walls. Except now he is no longer the Winter Soldier. She is no longer his Natalia.

They stand at odds, gazing unsurely at one another. He finds himself mildly taken aback by her appearance. He remembers their many run-ins and resulting quarrels, but he must not have gotten a very good look at her before now, because he's surprised by how… _womanly_ she appears. Her petite frame has grown from small and delicate to strong and curvy, her wild red locks curling in a subtle frame around her heart-shaped face. She's always been pretty, but standing before him now she is impossibly beautiful. He feels a slight tugging in his chest at the realization that his little Natalia has grown up.

He picks at the urge to apologize, to ask forgiveness for all the times he'd hurt her, for all the times she'd risked death because of him. He knows that he wasn't truly at fault, but deep down he still feels the guilt eating away at him. He wants to tell her how happy he is to see her alive, and that he remembers every intimate moment they shared in the red room. He wants to ask if she remembers as well, the long nights they spent wrapped up in each other's arms, listening to the sound of one another's breathing. He wants to tell her he still loves her, even though he's never admitted it before (_"Love is for children…"). _He wants to tell her that he's always loved her, and that it's okay if she hates him. He would hate him if he were her too.

He wants to tell her all of this, but he can't bring himself to say anything. She doesn't look like she's expecting him to, anyway. She tilts her head slightly to gaze at him, and a strand of her vibrant red hair falls into her face. He feels his fingers twitching with the urge to brush it behind her ear, but he keeps his hands glued to his sides. She lets it stay (much to his frustration) and takes a hesitant step towards him. He isn't sure what to expect, but then she gently reaches out and whispers softly, "James..?"

He looks at her for a moment before his gaze drops to his feet. "You've never called me by my name before." He mumbles.

After a brief silence, he sees her delicate hands reach out to gently rest on his rough, metallic palms. He looks back up to see her smiling softly at him, green eyes unreadable. "I didn't think you remembered me, _milii moi._" He returns her smile with a boyish grin, relief passing through him. His happiness is quickly replaced with sadness though, as he stares into her cold green eyes. He remembers a time when they would light up, just for him.

Without a word, he pulls his hands from her grasp. She doesn't look hurt, and he hadn't really expected her to. He averts his eyes from her questioning gaze by looking off in the distance. Numerous agents and technicians pass them by, chatting idly without a second glance. S.H.E.I.L.D. isn't quite sure what to do with him yet. He knows he's only alive due to Steve's stubborn protesting and Natalia's logical insight. He knows she'd convinced S.H.E.I.L.D. that his skills could prove useful to their objectives, but they don't trust him, not yet. He can't really blame them.

"Things have changed, haven't they?" he asks, trying to hide the sudden guilt tearing at him from the inside. But she—damn her—knows him too well, and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Things are _always _changing, James." She says, and he decides he likes her calling him that. It seems more intimate than if she called him Bucky, like everyone else (something he was still getting used to).

After a moment, she says softly, "It wasn't your fault." He doesn't mean to cringe, but he hates how she can read him like a book. "Do you know what it's like," he growls, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, "to have your brain messed with? To have your mind removed and someone else's put back in?"

She does not react to his anger. Instead, she slips her fingers through his and says, "You know that I do."

The third time he sees her outside of the red room, he does not recognize her at all. There's a part of him that thinks he may have seen her somewhere before, but he brushes it off and proceeds to fire off bullets in her direction. She dodges them all -something that does not occur often- and runs, yelling at civilians to get off the streets before he finally lands one in her shoulder. He's about to fire off a kill shot when she disappears behind a car. _Blyad,_ he thinks, before ordering his men after the blonde man so he can deal with her himself.

She seems eerily familiar, but he assures himself that he wouldn't forget an adversary this skilled. Still, she itches at his mind in a way he doesn't like. It's not enough to distract him though, and he quietly creeps up to the car, wanting to finish her off so he can return his attention to the blonde soldier. He's suspicious when he hears her calling for backup just a few cars away. Silently, he unlatches a grenade and rolls it under the vehicle to where she's hiding, not the least bit surprised when there's no sign of her in the debris of the explosion.

He _is _surprised, however, when she's on him in an instant, yanking a wire up against his throat in an attempt to suffocate him. It doesn't work, however, as he easily throws her down and after a brief spar, tosses her over the side of the bridge. She lands on her feet, of course, and he finds himself admiring her abilities, and how similar they are to his own. He doesn't give it too much thought though, before hunting her down once more, only to be knocked off his feet by the blonde soldier. He has to admit, once the fight takes off, that the American is good. Very good. After a series of flips, hits, and kicks the blonde manages to land a blow that knocks him through the air. He's on his feet in less than a second, though he'd lost his mask in the impact and now stands fully exposed. This startles the blonde, who stares at his face in shock.

"Bucky?" he asks, voice small and unsure. The name sets something sideways in him, and he glares furiously at his blonde adversary. Somehow, he thinks, he knows him, knows his face. But he cannot match the face with a name, and it enrages him. "Who the hell is Bucky?" he spits, and a haunted look flickers across the American's eyes.

He takes the opportunity to escape, but the incident follows him. Soon he begins to remember—not full memories, but bits and pieces. He can see a smirk, a laugh, two friends fighting in the dirt. He sees the American, smaller, skinner. He has visions of men in military uniforms, and dark laboratory-type rooms. He remembers being strapped to a table and injected. He remembers snowy mountains and a train. And he remembers the horrible feeling of icy air against his skin as he plummets to the cold rivers below. Most of all, he remembers that damn name, _Bucky_.

He has no idea what the hell's happening to him. But he knows he's _missing_ something. Something important. He tries to put the pieces together but just winds up with more fragments of memories. A dark, red room. A red star on a metallic arm. A shock of wild, red hair. Red, red, red. And he realizes that the blonde American is not the only one troubling him, he and the red-haired woman also knew each other, once upon a time.

He doesn't mention her when they strap him back into the chair, but he does bring up the American. He sees the look on their faces when he insists he knows this man, and realizes they're afraid. He knows that he's not getting the answers he wants when one of them suggests putting him back _there_, back into that _machine._ Back into the cold abyss of darkness and pain, and he knows there's nothing he can do. He wants to be angry, he wants to fight back, but instead he stares helplessly at Alexander Pearce, as though the older man will possibly sympathize with him. Disappointment washes over him when Pearce turns to leave the room, and he closes his eyes. The last thing he sees is a flash of wild red hair before the agony comes and covers him.

The second time he sees her outside the red room, she's standing between him and his assignment. He doesn't remember her name, but her face strikes his fancy, and he knows he's seen her before. For some reason, the thought of hurting her fills him with sadness. He does not understand why. As they engage in their dance—a routine of flips, kicks and jumps that only they could possibly know—he is struck with the unsettling feeling that he knows this girl, and this dark, violent ballet that they've performed a number of times before. It's familiar to him, the way her body moves in response to his, graceful and merciless. She is beautiful in the deadliest sense of the word. She lands a series of hits and kicks and he retaliates with strikes of his own. He remembers this, remembers her shock of red hair trailing behind her as she twirls around him, arching her back like a twisted ballet dancer in response to his hits. He remembers her cold green eyes shooting daggers through his skin. He remembers the irresistible pout she always pulled her lips into when she was deep in concentration during a fight. How perfectly she fit in his arms whenever they shared the same bed. How she would throw herself at him over and over again, refusing to give up her battle.

He remembers his Russian princess, how those agonizingly perfect lips would turn up into a mischievous smirk as her delicate hands moved up and down his entire body, and how stunning her bright red hair looked splayed out over the pillow beneath him.

He steps away from their violent dance to look at her. She returns his gaze and those green eyes cut through him. Observing their positions, he realizes that she stands directly between him and his mission, with their transportation hellicarrier only a few yards back. The engineer cowers behind her, terrified to move, having barely survived the Winter Soldier's wrath once before.

He understands that she will defend this man to the death. And he can't allow that. He raises his gun to her head and she tenses, waiting for him to shoot. An odd feeling of de ja vu passes through him, as though he's been in this exact situation before, but he brushes the thought away before returning his attention to the task at hand.

She yells an order to the engineer and he runs, heading desperately for the hellicarrier behind them. She blocks the assassin's aim, probably thinking she can buy her assignment some time, but she's underestimating him. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he's Winter Soldier. And he has a job to do.

Her name comes to his lips. "Natalia…" he whispers. He sees the surprise register on her face before lowering himself to the ground and firing. The bullet tears completely through her side, continuing on through the back of his target's neck. She looks stunned; the engineer drops dead behind her.

He leaves her where she stands, blood leaking from her wound. She's in pain, but he knows she'll live. He made sure to avoid any vital organs.

The first time he sees her outside the red room, he's been sent to kill her. He finds her curled up in an alleyway near the border of Moscow, shivering from the cold of the Russian winter. She doesn't look at him when he approaches her, though she must have heard the crunching of his boots in the snow. He steps in front of her and bends down to look at her face. He is surprised by the lack of life he sees in her cold, dead, green eyes. He remembers when they used to light up, just for him. Now they stare at him with bitter resentment and sadness.

"Are you going to kill me?" she whispers, and he can practically feel his heart cave in on itself. She thinks they've wiped him, erased his memory before sending him after her to ensure that she is shown no mercy. She does not realize that this punishment is his. She is a failed red room experiment; she is expendable. _He_ is the Russians' deadliest mercenary, who got too close to one of his disciples. He is a soldier in need of discipline, who saw a world where his little _tsvyetok_ could be free from the horrors of her crimson prison. A world where they could be happy together. He sees now that that world was a fairytale. Even if they left tonight, it wouldn't be long before their old lives caught up to them. No matter what, they could _never_ be happy together. She had asked him to run away with her. And he had helped her escape alone.

She quietly waits for him to answer her question. His silence tells her all she needs to know. She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the dirty brick wall. "Do it fast, _milii moi._" She whispers. He hesitates, and gently cups her cheek with his metallic hand, causing her to shiver. He leans in, and tenderly presses his lips against hers one last time. Then she does something he's never seen her do before. She begins to cry, hot tears running graciously down her reddened cheeks. He can't stand to see her like this. All of it, he thinks, is his fault. If he'd just stayed away…

He stands up and raises his gun to her tiny, trembling form. He watches her tense, waiting for him to shoot. _"Moy angel," _he whispers, _"I'm so sorry."_

He feels sick aiming his gun at her, but he has no other choice.

He hates himself for pulling the trigger, but he does it anyway.

He's grateful when they put him back to sleep, but his dreams are haunted by visions of red. Red falling delicately over pale shoulders. Red walls blending with red snow. Red dripping softly from her fingertips.

So much red.

He thinks of the love he supposedly has for Mother Russia.

He remembers leaving her in an alleyway to die.

The first time she meets him in the red room, she already knows his name. As soon as she sees the metal of his arm, she knows. He is a legend, a horror story, more machine than man. She'd heard the other girls speak of him in whispers, saying he was cold and merciless, deadly and efficient. Like a shadow in the dark.

She sits in the corner of the dark red room, hugging her legs to her chest. He stands in the doorway, watching her silently. She wonders what she must look like to him, pale scrawny limbs curled beneath a flurry of wild, red hair. _Must be quite a sight to see_, she thinks without humor. After a long time, he walks over and kneels down in front of her so that they are eye level. The first thing she notices is how blue his eyes are, deep azure pools peering at her over his mask. She can tell he's handsome, but she's not about to develop a girly crush on someone who is most likely her executioner.

After a moment, he speaks. "Do you know who I am, little one?"

"_Winter Soldat." _She responds quietly. She knows she should be afraid of him, but at this point she's all out of things to be afraid of. "Are you going to kill me?" She asks. He stares at he for a moment, then chuckles. What he could possibly find funny she has no idea, but she keeps her mouth shut.

"No, little one," he says. "I'm going to help you." She blinks. "You've shown great potential, but you need training. That's why I am here." He tilts his head to the side. "What is your name?"

"Natalia." She answers, surprised by his answer.

He stands up and offers his hand. "Come then, Natalia," he says, giving her a wink, "let's get you cleaned up, shall we?" She looks at him before hesitantly reaching up to take his hand. Gently, she wraps her fingers around the comforting cold of the metal.

They described him as a lethal, emotionless monster.

She remembers him as a guardian angel.


	2. She Remembers (Part II)

She hates having free time. Whenever she has free time, she has time to ponder. And pondering recently has been rough on her.

Most of the time her thoughts are normal. She can remember everything she needs without a second thought, but she's noticed lately that some of her memories are… incomplete. Like loose strands. If she pulls on some of them she can unravel bits and pieces that almost form a full picture, until suddenly she hits a wall and her mind goes blank. It's like a puzzle missing a single piece, and no matter how hard she tries she can't form the picture without it.

She hadn't noticed until the last few months, but the blank spaces in her memory go back even farther, all the way back to her days in the KGB.

She's not an idiot. She can tell she's been brainwashed. It's a feeling she's become very familiar with. She knows her mind has been wiped, although by whom, she cannot say for sure. Her memories are too patchy, too cut apart. She's not completely in the dark though. She has an idea of the one responsible. Every now and then she can still see the man's sinister smile and hear his laugh echoing through her head. She's ashamed to admit it, but she has nightmares of her time with him, horrible flashbacks of his clammy hands on her body, and the sensation of his icy fingers inside her mind. She shudders involuntarily, and glances behind her before chastising herself. _Don't be childish._

She knows that slimy bastard Leo Novokov has taken many things from her, but the blank spaces in her thoughts keep her from knowing exactly what, and that frustrates her. She doesn't like being kept in the dark, and she has so many questions. She remembers having a fondness for her memories, a reason to cherish the cold, harsh days of when she was young. Even her days in that dank, crimson prison instinctively fill her with bittersweet feelings of anger and joy. But when she goes back over these memories in her head, she can see no reason to be fond of them. All she can remember of the red room now is suffering. But for some reason, she finds herself wanting to hold on to it, as though her time there was something to cherish. Every now and then, she thinks she might know what, but then her mind hits another blank.

No one will give her answers. Every S.H.I.E.L.D. member she has the chance to speak with dodges her inquiries and avoids eye contact. Maria Hill tells her nothing except that "it would be best for her not to worry" and "there's nothing to be done now." Even Clint, whom she usually feels she can trust with anything shrugs away her questions and offers no advice. But it's clear from the look in his eyes that he knows something she doesn't, something he's not telling her and that hurts her more than he could ever know.

But she knows better than to let it show, and often manages to distract herself with work. But every now and then, much like now, she has free time. And when she has free time, she has time to ponder. She knows that she could go distract herself by catching up in one of the training rooms, or by finding other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to chat with, but right now she wants to be alone. So she sits by herself, thinking, and the more she thinks, the more frustrated she gets.

Her memories of her time with Leo are by far the most fragmented. She finds that connecting the dots proves incredibly difficult; as some strands are so incomplete that she can't tell where one begins or another ends. One memory in particular has been bothering her for a while now. After Leo had been apprehended by S.H.I.E.L.D., she had woken in the infirmary. She had been alone, for the most part. There had been a man in the window watching her. Not that that was abnormal, but what she really remembers is the expression on his face. He'd looked so immensely sad. She feels her chest tighten at the memory, though she has no idea why. She hadn't known the man, but he'd intrigued her. He'd struck her as handsome, and his left arm was entirely metal. There are times when she thinks of him that he seems familiar, but like always, she can't think of why. And that bothers her most of all.

Eventually, she becomes fed up with being in the dark. Although she knows that Maria Hill would disapprove, she seeks out help from Doctor Strange. It doesn't take much to convince the man to assist her. It takes hardly anything at all, really. "I'm always willing to offer my services to a beautiful woman in need," he says with a wink. He takes her back to a quiet room and has her relax while he begins to poke through her mind. She's anxious about allowing him in her head, but she does as he says, and lets him do his work.

It takes several minutes sitting there in that dark space, but eventually something happens. She is sitting back with her eyes closed when she hears him murmur, "Interesting." She's about to ask what he's discovered but before she can open her mouth she is knocked back by a gigantic wave of red. Red walls, red snow, red lips. All she can see is red, and for a split second, she remembers. Memory after memory crashes into her like a shockwave and for a single moment she becomes lost in that sea of red, wading through her memories and reclaiming what was taken from her, one moment at a time.

She remembers.

…

…..

"James," she whispers, leaning closer to him. When he stays silent she creeps forward into his line of sight, and rests a hand on his metallic shoulder. "James."

"Hm." He responds, unmoving. She glances over at his face and hesitates, somewhat surprised by what she sees. They've been out on a tracking mission for the past few days. Neither of them has slept and the cold winter air is slowly beginning to seep into her skin. Despite this, he's intently focused on the area below, tightly gripping his sniper rifle and watching closely from their hiding spot on the ledge just above the road. She pauses, and moves a few inches to observe him.

Since she'd gotten him back he was James Buchanan Barnes, a slightly goofy but extremely caring and gentle (though very protective) man. She knows he's agonized about the many innocent lives he's taken and the horrible deeds he's done, and she understands his pain. She also accepts that he is not the same man she once knew, at least not most of the time. It's times like this, when she watches him glaring down the barrel of a sniper with an icy look in his blue eyes, and a hard rigidness in his handsome face that she thinks maybe she can see traces of the Winter Soldier still inside him. She can see it almost perfectly now, with his dark brows furrowed in concentration above a cold, merciless gaze. He has a healthy amount of scruff from not shaving the past few days, and his messy brown hair hangs in front of his steely, unmoving eyes. She smiles at the thought of brushing it back behind his ear but she doesn't dare. She wants to sit back and admire this faint glimpse of her Russian assassin for as long as it'll last.

"Nat?" His voice breaks her from her thoughts and she realized that he turned toward her with his eyebrow raised, waiting expectantly.

"Hm?" she responds, looking at him blankly. She's a bit embarrassed that she hadn't noticed him turn towards her, but she plays it off. His deep blue eyes study her curiously before she hears his deep, tired voice. "You wanted something?"

"Oh," she says and smiles. "Nothing. False alarm."

He blinks at her before turning back. "You look tired," he mutters. She watches his breath fade into the frigid winter air. "You should rest."

She can't help but smirk to herself. It's not unlike him to fret about her. She is definitely tired, but that isn't uncommon. Being in her line of work, she is used to "sleeping with one eye open", as they say. Then again, that never seemed to make it any less difficult. However, were it her _Winter Soldat_ sitting next to her, he would have insisted that she suck it up. Stick it out. A Black Widow should never complain.

James, however, was never like that. He always seemed concerned about her well-being. It wasn't that he was underestimating her; he just wanted her to be comfortable. She has to admit to herself, it's kind of nice. James did a fair amount of complaining himself, something that she's still getting used to, but when he's in action, he never makes a single objection. It's surreal watching Bucky Barnes slip back into the soldier that he once was, but she welcomes it. It's not that she doesn't love them both, but although they are the same person they are two very different products of their environment. James is the kind of man she dreamed of when she was a little girl, her brave, handsome prince charming, willing to scale towers and fight monsters for the safety of his princess. Sometimes those monsters are his own inner demons, but he fights them just as bravely every day for her. She loves him for it. The winter soldier was another matter entirely. He was the anchor that made all the horrible memories of her past worth remembering. It had been a time where his cold blue eyes would light up, just for her. Now, they're always warm and alive, for so many people, and as much as she hates admitting it to herself, she doesn't like that. He belongs to _everyone_ now. Not just her.

Deep down she knows that's not entirely true. In a way, he is still hers just as much as the Winter Soldier was. All of his fears, thoughts and deepest regrets only she knows. He still hates himself for the things he's done, and only she understands the true extent of that. When they are alone at night, he looks at her with something akin to adoration in his eyes, and although she would never say it out loud, that look often puts butterflies in her stomach.

Sooner or later, she thinks, she'll be able to let go of her Winter Soldier. But until then, she'll cherish whatever faint glimmers she can get of him in moments like this.

She smiles to herself. "James," she says, smirking. "I just remembered what I was going to say."

He glances back at her curiously, and makes no attempt to resist when she pulls him in for a kiss. He smiles against her lips and wraps his free arm around her waist, pressing them closer together.

It's moments like this, she thinks, that make everything they've gone through together seem almost worth it. If every moment could be like this, she thinks, maybe red would be her favorite color.

She breaks the kiss and wrinkles her nose at him. "You smell horrible," she teases. He raises an eyebrow.

"You're no bundle of roses yourself," he retorts before turning back to his gun.

She thinks for a moment and decides to take him up on his offer. It's becoming quite clear to them both that she _does _need rest. She gazes at him a bit longer, and thinks, _oh, what the hell._ She gives in to her childish temptation and brushes his hair back away from his face. He doesn't react to the gesture but she swears she can see the faintest hint of a smile in his eyes as she stands.

"Don't push yourself." She tells him, knowing fully well that he is going to anyway.

"Yes ma'am," she hears him mutter as she makes her way back to the hastily made cot.

_Yes,_ she thinks, _things are different now_. Deep down, she is okay with that, but she remembers a time when cold blue eyes could make her feel small one moment and beautiful the next. She remembers a time when his rock hard exterior would crumble beneath her delicate touch. But, she also remembers a time when she didn't have him at all, and she's fine with whatever she gets, just as long as she still has him.

Yes, she remembers when her life was an isolated storm of the coldest color she can think of.

…

…..

Her head is spinning. The unforgiving hallway offers little solace to her racing mind as seconds turn into minutes and minutes into hours and so on. On the outside she is certain she appears calm and collected, but inside she's ready to combust. She stands solid as a statue, staring intently at the wall, as though trying to burn a hole through it with her eyes.

_Might not be a bad power to have, _she thinks without humor.

Beside her, Steve Rogers stands looking composed, but she can tell he's fairing just as badly as she is, perhaps worse. His hands are clenched, knuckles white and he stares down at the floor as though he's, well, trying to burn a hole through it.

It occurs to her that she and Steve might not be so different. They made a pretty good team. And she has to admit; she can't help but like him. Perhaps his well-to-do attitude mixes well with her dry demeanor the same way it did with… well, _Bucky _apparently his name is. She turns the name over in her head a few times. She doesn't like it. It sounds corny to her. Surely, she thinks, they'll be able to come up with something else.

She doesn't want to acknowledge it, but she's scared to see him. Terrified. She doesn't understand why. After so long, she thinks she should be overjoyed, but her nerves are racing. She can do nothing to calm them. So she stands there in that Godforsaken hallway for hours anticipating what she'll say to the man on the other side of the door. _Hey, big guy. You're looking good. Mind if I join you? _She can't help but smirk to herself. It just didn't seem like an appropriate thing to say.

For a bit longer she stands in silence, anxiously chewing her bottom lip. She almost jumps when she hears a soft voice speak beside her: "Are you nervous?"

She turns her head to see Steve looking at her expectantly. She figures he's probably making small talk to stop from driving himself insane, and she understands the feeling. She isn't sure what to say, so she just gives him a curt nod that she hopes will tide him over. He returns the nod and goes back to staring at the floor.

"Me too," he says quietly.

For the first time since the registration act began, Natasha takes a moment to really look at her captain. She doesn't like what she sees. His brows are furrowed, dark circles hug his eyes and a heavy grimace distorts his normally handsome face. He appears ready to crumble at any second. It hurts her heart to see him like this. Steve's forehead had permanent lines from him furrowing his brow so much. It wasn't unlike him to constantly look concerned about something (Tony Stark once quipped that he always looked like he was trying to remember if he left the stove on), but this is different. He looks drained, slumped against the wall with his fists clenched and his eyes red from lack of sleep. Never before has Natasha seen her proud captain look nearly as broken, beaten or shattered as he does right now.

For once, she thinks to herself, Steve Rogers actually looks his age.

"You don't need to worry about him, Steve." She reassures him in an unconvincing tone. "He's tough. He'll get through this." Even to her, the statement sounds forced, but Steve doesn't seem to notice.

He offers her a grateful smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "It's not him I'm worried about." He says, "It's me." He hesitates. "All these years I've been trying to convince myself that what happened to Bucky was beyond my control. That there was nothing I could have done. But I keep thinking, if I'd just been a little faster, or reached just a little bit further, then maybe, _maybe_ things wouldn't have turned out the way they did." He slumps forward, defeated. "What's the point of being some kind of super soldier if you can't even save the people you care about? It's my fault this happened to him." He turns away from her and pinches the bridge of his nose as though trying to quell a headache. "He probably hates me." He mumbles.

Natasha's face stays emotionless, but inside her chest she feels a storm beginning to take shape. "We've _all_ had our chance to save him, Rogers." She says softly. He goes quiet for a moment, then whispers, "I know."

They return to standing in silence. Natasha leans against the wall and quietly turns Steve's words over in her head. She finds it ludicrous that Steve Rogers, with his heart of gold, could ever truly think that his best friend might actually despise him. If anything, _she's_ the one he has the most reason to hate.

Minutes pass. Steve's restlessness begins turning into frustration. "What is the doctor _doing?_" he mutters, glancing around anxiously. "Someone should be coming by to check on him." Natasha stays silent and stares forward, hoping Steve's episode passes soon. It doesn't.

Eventually a scrawny, young doctor scurries in and makes his way down the hall. He looks about twenty, with dark curly hair and glasses almost half the size of his face. He glances uneasily at them as though he can sense some kind of danger and tries to quickly scamper along, but just as he's about to duck around the corner Steve's hand coils around his arm and yanks him back into the hallway. He slams the doctor up against the wall and begins assaulting him with a series of questions. _Are you a doctor? What's going on? We've been waiting on my friend forever. Is he okay? Why isn't anyone checking on him? _The doctor stares wide-eyed back at him, looking utterly terrified. He quickly stammers that he is not the doctor assigned to that specific subject, and is therefore unauthorized to tend to him. Steve narrows his eyes at the use of the word "subject," and insists that somebody let him into Bucky's room.

"Sir," the doctor explains, trying to stay calm. "The subject is in a recovering state—"

"He's not a _subject!_" Steve barks. The doctor flinches. "He's a human being, God dammit! His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was an American soldier. For all we know he could be dying in there!" His fingers dig in to the young doctor's arm. "Do something." He hisses. The doctor's face pales. He seems just about ready to wet himself at the unfortunate aspect of having somehow gotten on the super soldier's bad side when Natasha steps in. She walks over and gently rests a hand on her friend's shoulder.

"Steve," she says softly. "That's enough. Let him go."

Steve pauses and lets her words sink in. He mumbles a somewhat incoherent apology and releases his steely grip on the trembling doctor, who quickly scurries away, disappearing around the corner. Steve watches him go, before turning back towards the wall in heavy silence. She gazes at him a moment longer to make sure he's okay. She expects him to start speaking, in order to maybe ease the tension but he just stares forward, not meeting her eyes. The color has drained from his face. She can only imagine how he feels right now. Embarrassed. Ashamed. She figures saying something will only further mortify him, so she purses her lips and keeps her mouth shut.

They don't wait long before Maria Hill comes marching around the corner. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and Natasha can see the exasperation in her eyes. She glances around for a moment until she spots them and comes striding over with an older, clearly miffed doctor following close behind.

"I hear you're feeling concerned about my patient." He says to Steve, who sheepishly turns his gaze to the floor. The doctor, unsatisfied, continues to scold him mercilessly. Although watching the aging medic ruthlessly lay into the famous Captain America as though he were a disobedient child amuses her to no end, Natasha turns her attention away from their conversation. She locks eyes with Maria. The two share an unspoken agreement and the smaller woman nods, giving her a tired, sympathetic smile. She turns to the older doctor and says, "Perhaps it would be best to let these two in to see their friend. Put 'em at ease. Calm their nerves a bit." The doctor looks at her, surprised. He opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off. "As I'm sure you can tell, we _all_ have had a _very_ long week." He appears ready to argue again but she shoots him a look that tells him it isn't a suggestion, and he sighs, obviously accepting that this is not a fight he can win.

"Mr. Barnes is resting," he says, "but, if you insist on being _adamant_, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let you wait in the room with him until he wakes up." He gives Steve a pointed look. "But you need to behave."

Two minutes later they're in the room, quietly waiting. Bucky is asleep on a hospital cot, breathing softly. Steve sits in a chair beside the bed; Natasha takes her place in the doorway. Steve looks a little more at ease, she notices. He no doubt feels more in control now that he has Bucky sitting right in front of him. Natasha, however, has never felt more helpless.

The air in the small room is thick, almost too thick to breath. Her hands are balled into fists, so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. She can't stop staring at his face. It's _him_, she can tell just by looking at him, but Natasha remembers her _Winter Soldat's _sleeping face quite well. She'd long memorized every line between his furrowed brows. Every crease in his faint grimace. Every fading outline of some forgotten scar. She remembers gently running her fingers along the edge of his jaw, trying to ease the tension from his hardened face. But the face of the man before her is not molded from anger or hate or war. He appears completely at peace, with no disturbance present on his soft face. Just then it really hits her that her precious _lyubovnik _was once a person, with hopes and dreams and a family. Steve's words wrench deeper into her gut. What if he _did_ hate her?

She is startled by a sudden noise from across the room. Bucky begins to stir. His eyes flutter open, just as blue, dark and beautiful as she remembers, but she realizes that she doesn't recognize them. They belong to a completely different person. Whoever this man is, he is not her Winter Soldier. Steve hesitates, which tells her that he is not quite Bucky Barnes either. The man sitting before them is a tragic hybrid between a good man struggling to find his identity and a cold, merciless killing machine. The tormented look in his eyes is that of someone who has seen hell close enough to describe it in detail. It sends a shiver down her spine.

He sits up, startled, and looks around. His eyes pass right over her. The wrench lodges itself even deeper into her gut. After a moment, Steve hesitantly leans in.

"Bucky?" he murmurs, slightly unsure.

Bucky snaps his head in Steve's direction. They hold each other's gaze until something in Bucky's head seems to click. His face pales, as though he's seeing a ghost.

"Steve…?" he asks, voice cracking. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," Steve replies hoarsely. "Yeah, it's me."

Bucky stares bewildered at him. Suddenly, his expression contorts into something horrid. Natasha has never seen so much agony on one person's face. Enraged sobs envelope him, making his entire body shudder.

"Why didn't…" he chokes. "Why didn't you let me die?"

Steve stares at him, stunned. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

"Do you have any idea," Bucky hisses through his teeth, "what I've done? How many innocent people I've…?" An enormous sob racks his body. He clenches the bed sheets between his fists until his knuckles turn white. Steve reaches out to comfort him but he flinches away from the touch. Natasha watches, speechless, as her unbreakable _Winter Soldat _falls to pieces right in front of her.

"Kill me," he insists. "Steve, you have to."

"No," Steve fires back. "Absolutely not."

"You don't know what I've done, Steve!"

Back and forth they banter. Bucky drowning in his bottomless pool of guilt, desperately begging Steve to throw him a life raft. Steve struggling to pull him out, not realizing that he's too far to reach. Eventually, Bucky gives in and breaks down in Steve's arms. Natasha feels as though someone's ripped her heart from her chest.

She shouldn't be here, Natasha realizes. No good can come of her being here right now. She leaves Steve behind and ducks out the door, bolting down the hall as fast as she can.

Steve later asks her why she bailed. She tells him that she didn't feel that Bucky seeing her at that moment would have been the best thing for him, which is true. Steve stood for everything good in Bucky's life, back when he was a person instead of a machine. In that moment what he'd needed was the support of a close friend, one that he'd been robbed of for so many years. He didn't need her. All that seeing her would have done was remind him of his life sealed behind those crimson walls. It wasn't Steve or her that Bucky hated. It was himself.

….

…

For the first time ever, the soldier made from winter freezes.

He stands unmoving, fury in his cold blue eyes as his finger hovers just above the trigger. He has never hesitated before, but now he stands motionless, staring at the begging man lying helpless in the snow before him. No, Natalia realizes, it isn't the pleading man that her soldier is so intensely focused on; it is the frightened child crying in his arms. A young girl, holding tightly onto her father's sleeve, no older than six or seven.

They stand in the dark streets of Russia, painted white by the fallen snow. Two KGB members linger off to the side, somewhat surprised by their comrade's sudden hesitation. She wonders what he must be thinking. Does he see an innocent child whose world he is about to destroy, or does he see _her,_ as a child watching her parents whither all those years ago? Whatever he sees, he can't bring himself to pull the trigger.

The sight is like a dagger in Natalia's chest. She remembers being a child in the Red Room, daydreaming of a life outside its crimson walls. It was something she had often talked about when she was alone with her soldier. Perhaps it was nothing more than a young girl's fantasy, but she often pictured them living a life together. Getting married. Raising a child. Although she never shared _those _thoughts with him, she would often find herself rambling to him about the children she was sure she was going to have someday. Her first would be a girl, she'd say, and she was going to make sure that that child lived a much better life than she ever could. He always listened, but he never once said anything in response. Every now and then she swore she could see the faintest hint of sadness in his eyes. She'd never understood why.

It wasn't until a few years later that it finally made sense to her. All of the Black Widow recruits in her age division had been forced to undergo an operation that would supposedly enhance them physically. They were told it would slow down their aging process, and make them more effective in the field. But what Natalia discovered not long after the process was over was that the treatment had also left her infertile.

She had spent much of that afternoon crying to herself in private. As a result she had missed her training, and it wasn't long before her _Winter Soldat _came looking for her. He'd found her just outside the gates, curled up in the snow with her face buried in her arms. He hadn't even had to ask. He'd known. He'd known all along. Perhaps he'd seen some kind of humanity in letting her dream. She'd been expecting him to berate her for missing their training session, but instead he'd quietly carried her back to her chambers and let her be. Later that night he'd taken her up to the roof and let her see the stars, something she had always wanted to do.

Still, something inside of her had died that day. She'd realized then that they were trying to turn her into something people were meant to fear. A monster. A faceless killing machine. Perhaps, to a small extent, they'd succeeded. She'd hardened inside, not allowing herself to show any sign of weakness. She hasn't shed a single tear since.

She steps forward and pulls the young child from her father's arms. The man sputters. "Don't hurt my daughter!" he yelps pitifully. She holds the child close to her and reassures him, "I will not." She tells him she is going to bring the girl back to the facility to be trained. That she will be cared for and given a good life. He believes her. She takes the child's hand and leads her away, not daring to look back at the father's face. They duck around the corner, Natalia tenderly holding the child close to her.

"Is he going to hurt my papa?" The girl asks, her voice small. Natalia cradles her and whispers, "_Shhh. _No, little one. Your papa will be fine." The child relaxes in her arms, and Natalia's heart sinks. The girl trusts her so naively, so unquestioningly. She is so unaware of what kind of beast the world really is.

There is a loud noise, a _bang, _like a gunshot. The girl's eyes widen and she looks at Natalia frantically. Natalia soothes her, and brushes her hair back from her face. She thinks about her promise to the girl's father and realizes that it was empty. She cannot even begin to think about bringing this child back to that bloody prison. She isn't a monster.

She softly sings to the frightened child, calming her as she covers the girl's mouth. The girl's eyes widen as she struggles for air. Eventually, her tiny legs stop kicking and she goes limp. Natalia finds some solace in knowing that the child will never live the same kind of life that she has.

Back at camp, Natalia overhears some KGB members whispering about the events in the alley. She catches tiny snippets of conversation, such as "_hesitated," _and _"jeopardized the mission," _but the words that really strike a chord with her are _"put him back on ice." _

She knows exactly whom they're talking about. She grits her teeth but manages to stay quiet. She has to find him, she thinks. She ducks around the corner and disappears into the dark chambers, eager to find her comrade.

She searches for what feels like hours, before she finally finds his uniform bundled up outside the base showers. She hesitates, and then peeks in to get a good look. His back is turned to her, and he stands silently letting the water run through his hair. She finds her eyes drawn to where his metallic arm connects with his shoulder. The skin there is marbled and bruised. The rest of his back is covered in hardened scars from past battles, which almost shine from the shower water running down them. To her, he is a masterpiece. From here she can see the wound in his side, red leaking onto the rusty tiled floor, disappearing though the small drain. She bites her lip. Her stomach turns inside out. She shouldn't be here. But she can't bring herself to leave. This might be the last chance she'll ever have with her _Winter Soldat. _

He shudders suddenly, violently. She watches as the metallic arm pulls on his skin. It looks painful but he doesn't wince. The unexpected movement catches her off guard and she gives out a soft yelp.

His cold blue eyes are on her in less than a second. The pure ice in his steely gaze momentarily knocks the breath out of her, and she quickly scrambles to put words together. He looks startled, she thinks. She realizes that he hadn't sensed her approaching him, even though as a trained assassin he would've been more than capable of doing so. It occurs to her that his mind must be racing just as much as hers. She wonders if he's afraid.

They stand there like that, locking eyes with one another, until finally he breaks the unbearable silence.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice gravelly. He sounds exhausted.

She glances down at the wound in his side. "You're bleeding," she whispers quietly. He looks at her for a moment, and his gaze softens. He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. "You shouldn't be here." He tells her. He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales deeply, once again turning his back to her.

After a brief moment of silence he beckons her to him. "Well, come on then." He says. She stays where she is and stares, trying to figure out if she heard him right. A moment passes before she hears him grunt in frustration.

"Natalia." He growls. "Come here."

Hesitantly, she begins to step inside the shower before he stops her again. "No," he says. "Not like that. You'll ruin your clothes."

She lets the meaning of his words sink in. Slowly, she begins removing her clothing. It makes her feel vulnerable, so she grabs a nearby towel and holds it in front of her as she timidly puts one foot inside. The tiled floor is cold beneath her feet but the heat from the shower encases her in steam. She approaches him, his backs still turned to her and waits. He doesn't move so she timidly steps in front of him so that she can see his face. He stares her down as though he is about to lecture her but then a surprised look suddenly crosses his face. He freezes, taking in the sight of her exposed before him, nothing but a soaked towel tightly hugging her form. She wonders, briefly, if he likes what he sees. She's developed curves in the past few years. She knows that men have begun to find her irresistible, and she wonders, briefly, if he feels the same. His brows furrow and he looks away, leaving her to try desperately to gain control of her thoughts.

She glances down at his wound again. It's deeper than she had originally thought. She removes the towel and gently presses it against the leaking gnash, gingerly wiping away the dirt and grime that had begun to collect around its edges. He goes rigid, still not looking at her but he doesn't stop her. He stays quiet while she tends to him, cleaning out his injury just the way he's taught her. After she's done she retrieves a kit from her uniform and begins to stitch it up. He doesn't wince but she knows it hurts him. As she works, she softly sings to him. The one lullaby she can remember her from her childhood.

Eventually he begins to relax. She massages him, running her hands along his shoulders and neck, working out the knots in his muscles. Every now and then he groans softly, and the sound alone sends shivers down her spine. Before long, she begins letting her hands wander. She hears him softly exhale as she brushes the tips of her fingers against his skin, tracing the scars on his back. He remains rigid, but does nothing to stop her. She begins to run her hands through his wet hair, and stands on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. Finally, his exterior crumbles and he shivers beneath her touch.

Part of her is amazed to have gotten this far with the cold soldier. She's never felt this intimate with anyone before in her life. She runs her hands up and down and all over his chest. He closes his eyes and lets her, until she ventures too low. Suddenly, his metallic hand closes around her wrist before she can overstep her bounds. She meets his gaze and sees ferocity in his eyes, but not from anger or disapproval. She shrinks under his intense stare, but does not break eye contact.

He silently moves his gaze up and down her now completely exposed body. She can't tell by his expression what he's thinking, and it drives her insane. She feels like she's in a dream, though she's not sure whose.

They exit the shower, and she bandages his wound. She can feel his eyes on her, but she finishes up before turning to meet his gaze. The expression on his face is much softer now, and it puts butterflies in her stomach. Gently, she reaches up and brushes her fingers against his cracked lips. He watches her as she does so, not taking his eyes off her.

"Say something." She whispers. He doesn't. She bites her lip, feeling small under the weight of his thick gaze.

"What _happened_ out there?" she finally asks. Her voice trembles the slightest bit. His eyes narrow. He softly shakes his head and starts to turn away, but stops when she says, "Wait." Reluctantly, he turns to glance at her. She hesitates, and then raises herself up to meet him.

Their lips only barely brush one another, yet the contact is enough for her throat to seal shut and breathing to become second nature. He becomes her oxygen, her overwhelming need to breath him in giving her the courage to close the small distance between them and push her lips against his own.

He responds almost immediately, wrapping his huge arms around her tiny frame. The metal is warm from the hot shower and she welcomes it pressed against her skin. She wraps her arms around his neck and holds tightly onto him, vowing to never let go. He leans in to deepen the kiss, and pure bliss spreads through her body as they become lost in each other, forehead to forehead, chin brushing against chin. She peppers kisses across his lips, the corners of his mouth, his eyelids, his temple—anywhere she can reach—and he softly traces his fingers down the curve of her back.

He brings her back to his room and they dance. A perfect dance where her back is arched and his face is buried in the nape of her neck and her hands are tangled in his hair. A dance where they melt into one another and he becomes lost in her wild red hair splayed out beneath him. A dance that is uniquely and utterly theirs.

When they're done, they lie together, watching each other quietly. Warmth radiates through her body as she gazes into her lover's eyes. He reaches out and brushes a strand of her red hair out of her face. She nearly melts right then and there. Her happiness doesn't last though, and the longer she lies there, the more the earlier events of the evening slowly creep back into her mind.

She softly whispers, almost too low to hear, "They're going to put you back on ice."

There is no change in his face. The look in his eyes tells her everything. He already knows. He's always known all along. He says nothing, but continues watching her. She gently runs her fingers along the edge of his jaw, feeling the soft scruff that's starting to come in. "I overhead them talking. They're going to put you back in that machine. Maybe for a year or two." She pauses. Her lip trembles slightly. "You'll forget me." She says softly. She bites her lip to keep from crying. She knows what he'd tell her if she did. _A Black Widow should never cry, _he'd say_. _She wants to tell him that she's no Black Widow; she's just a girl. A girl forced against her will to live this horrible, horrible life until she's most likely killed before her twenty-first birthday, but instead she says nothing.

Something in his eyes shifts. He appears to be contemplating if he should speak, but after a few hesitant moments, he says, "Every time I go in there, all I can see is red. And when I come out, all I can see is red. But the moment right before I wake up, I always see the same thing." He pauses. "White." He says. "Everywhere. I see an icy river, and I'm plummeting towards it. Someone is screaming something. It might be my name. It might not. I don't know. I try to hear what they're saying but I can't make out the words. And then I am awake, and I am once again a soldier without a name. Surrounded by red."

He shifts slightly, easing some off his weight off her. "I made the mistake of asking about it once." He says, lying back. "_Once_. They sent me into the machine for days. They wiped everything. Made sure I was still their loyal dog. But I remember it. And when I came out I had that same vision, again." He stares forward, thoughts loud behind his blue eyes. "Perhaps," he says, "the moment before you die is the hardest to forget. They take as many memories as they can, but certain things still manage to slip through the cracks." He looks at her, and just the slightest bit, he smiles. "I believe you will be one of these things."

Warmth blossoms in her chest. She holds back the tears that threaten to break free. "I love you," she whispers, and to her surprise, he chuckles.

"Nonsense." He says, smiling. He turns his gaze back to the ceiling. "Love is for children."

"Then I am a child." She shoots back. His expression turns serious.

"That is true." He says. "You have aged many years, Natalia. But you are still very young. One day you will be a woman, and the child in you will be dead. But you will be strong, intelligent, and beautiful." He closes his eyes, wistfully, as though picturing it. "You will be a force to be reckoned with."

A moment passes. "What's it like?" she asks under her breath. He is quiet for a moment. Then in a somber tone he says, "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

She sits up and looks pleadingly at him. "We could run away," she whispers. "You and me. We could get out of here. Start a new life." She looks at him, optimism practically emanating from her. "We could be _happy._"

He watches her for a long time. She sees something in his eyes that she never has before. Hope. Just for that moment, he considers it. Then she swears she can see it dwindle away, but he keeps his gaze firmly locked on her face.

"Are you ready for that?" he asks.

"Yes." She responds without hesitation. She wants to leave _so_, so bad. "Yes."

He thinks for a moment, and says, "Tomorrow."

It takes less than twenty-four hours for her to realize how childish these hopes are.

She joins him in the courtyard the next day where other trainees stand lined up in a row. They glance at her uneasily before turning their gazes away, and she wonders what exactly is going on. She notices the captain turn his head their way and narrow his eyes at them. Her _Winter Soldat _tenses up beside her, and he steps protectively in front of her.

"Winter Soldier." The captain shouts. "Come here."

Her soldier stays put, glaring daggers at the captain; whose eyes somehow manage to narrow even more. He glances at her before pulling back his lips into a snarl.

"Winter Soldier!" he barks, "Step away from Romanova."

Again, her soldier stays put. She looks around wildly, desperately trying to get a grasp on the situation. Her eyes land on a pair of men standing beside the captain, and at that moment her heart sinks. She recognizes the men as the two comrades that had been with them in the alley. One's name was Mikhail, she remembers. The other's name escapes her. She looks at her soldier.

"_Milli moi," _she whispers. Suddenly, he pulls out his gun and lines it up directly between Mikhail's widening eyes. The line of girls begins to rumble with surprise and unease, and Natalia gapes at her soldier.

_"Milli moi!" _She whispers frantically. "What are you doing?"

Just then he turns and looks at her. She falters. His icy blue eyes are the most intense she's ever seen them. They are a flurry of different emotions. She isn't sure what those emotions are, but there is one thing that in that moment she is absolutely certain of. He won't be coming with her. He was never going to. She understands now that the hope she had seen in his eyes the night before wasn't for _them_. He'd never believed they could possibly live a happy life outside these crimson walls.

No, the hope he'd had, it had been for _her._

"When I pull this trigger," he tells her in a low voice. "Run. As fast and as far as you can. Don't look back. No matter what you see or hear. Do you understand?"

"Please," She pleads. _"Please. _Come with me." His face softens. He whispers something, but she doesn't hear. She wants to ask what it was, but she doesn't have time before his finger pulls back the switch.

_Bang._

Time slows. Mikhail screams and falls to the ground. The guards and trainees rush over to help him, as she faintly hears the distorted sound of her soldier yelling to her.

"_Now!"_ he barks. _"Go!"_

And so she runs. Her legs feel like putty beneath her. She hears angry shouts behind her but she doesn't look back. She runs until her legs burn and her feet bleed. And then she keeps running. Eventually the gunshots and cries of pain fade into silence, and she finally stops to rest.

She sits pressed against a wall in an alleyway, hugging her knees to her chest. Never in her life has she felt more alone than she does right now. She's scared, she realizes. In less than a minute her entire life has been turned on its head. Her legs burn and her heart feels like it's going to burst out of her chest. She doesn't know where to go. She doesn't know what to do.

She looks at the snow on the ground, and pauses a moment to take in the white. It swallows her, and she welcomes its embrace. She remembers what her soldier told her, and wonders what color her memories will be. Deep down inside, she knows there was only ever one answer to that question.

…..

…

From the first moment she sees him, she's mesmerized. She stands in a row with a bunch of other girls about her age who all look just as terrified as she feels. She watches as a tall man walks down the line sizing them up one by one. "Decent height," she hears him say. "Good build." Her gaze wanders around the dank room until it locks on to a dark figure lined up among the other instructors. One of his arms is made entirely of metal, and a mask covers the lower half of his face. He stands straight, staring forward blankly. The lack of humanity in his cold eyes sends shivers down her spine. _What kind of monsters do they make here? _She can't help but wonder.

She returns her attention to the tall man, who stops just in front of her. She can't help but notice he has an abnormally long face. His cheeks are sunken in, and he looks gaunt, almost as though he hasn't eaten in several weeks. She glares up at him, refusing to shrink under his gaze.

After a torturous minute, he sniffs at her. "This one is too skinny." He says. "She won't last a week." He turns to a dark-haired instructor standing by. "Get her out of here." He orders.

She stares at him, furious. These monsters who slaughtered her family and dragged her here against her will were now going to put her down like a dog simply because they thought she was "too scrawny." Unbelievable. The dark-haired instructor goes to grab her. She bites his hand. He cries out and backhands her. She falls to the ground, face burning and raw, and glares up at the long-faced man, who watches her curiously. He leans down so they are eye level. "Feisty though, aren't you? Pretty little thing too." He smiles at her. She spits in his face. Everyone in the room watches as his smile contorts into something hideous. Before she can scramble away, he slams his foot into her jaw and watches her bleed on the floor.

"You little bitch," he snarls. He looks around at the other girls, who watch the scene in silent horror. He sneers at them, wiping the saliva off his face. "Do you see this, girls?" he asks, pointing at her. "This is _red_." He smiles down at her. "Beautiful, isn't it?" He purrs sadistically. "You will all become very familiar with it during your time here."

Natalia can see the color starting to pool in front of her face. She turns to the line of instructors, desperately trying to hold back her tears. None of them look at her, instead choosing to stare forward blankly. Then she locks gazes with a pair of cold, dead eyes. It's the man with the metal arm. He watches the scene before him, completely expressionless. She silently pleads for him to help her, but he remains where he is, watching her. She wonders what she must look like from his point of view. Does he see a disobedient, unruly recruit, or a helpless, broken child? He holds her gaze for a moment longer then returns to staring ahead blankly. She closes her eyes and holds back her tears. There's no way she's going to let these bastards see her cry.

"Get rid of her." Her instructor spits. She feels a steely pair of hands close around her arm before forcefully dragging her out of the room. She tries to fight, but the mystery captor strikes her across the temple before tossing her into a cold, damp space and sealing her in with a harsh _slam!_ She curls up into a ball and bites her tongue to keep tears from spilling out on to her cheeks. The metallic taste of blood begins to fill her mouth and she gags before spitting it all over the floor. It takes a moment for her to gather herself, and she looks at the stained floor. She wonders if she's ever seen so much red in all her life. She lies there forever, waiting, wondering what sort of fate awaits her.

Eventually, the door opens, and in steps her knight in shining armor. Or rather, knight with the shining arm. She wants to smirk at her own terrible joke, but keeps her face blank. He takes a step towards her and she closes her eyes, waiting for him to take her out, certain that red is the last thing she's ever going to see.

…

…..

Suddenly, and without warning, Natasha is violently yanked from her crimson prison. Confused, she blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. She hears the distinctive sound of a familiar voice speaking to her, and when she looks around she sees that she is lying on a large mattress in a cozy little apartment. She squints as a concerned-looking face comes into focus. The blood drains from her face. _Doctor Strange. _Time halts as reality slams into her hard. She sits up and begins to panic as the memories she just reclaimed start to slip away from her. She hears Doctor Strange speak again, but she ignores him as she desperately tries to grasp at the dwindling fragments. To her dismay, they fade faster and faster with each passing second, until finally, they're gone. All of them vanished without a trace. Escaped before she even had the chance to catch them.

In that moment, she feels hollow. Empty. She feels like the cracked, lifeless shell of what was once Natasha Romanoff.

Then, slowly she begins to feel it. The rage. Fiery waves crash into her, filling her small frame with seething, hot fury. Tears well up in the corner of her eyes, and she grits her teeth to keep from screaming. "Damn it," she croaks. "Damn it. _Damn it!_" She can hear Strange attempting to sooth her, but it's no use. _I had it, _she thinks. _It was right there. _She can't understand why she feels as though someone's ripped a hole in her chest. She doesn't understand why it _hurts _so much. Something ugly begins to well up deep inside her chest. Her fingers tingle as her vision starts to blur, and all she can see is that damned infernal color. _Red._

She knows her exterior is starting to crumble. She can feel it. Without saying a word she makes it to her feet and quickly ducks out the door into the hall. She hears Doctor Strange calling after her, but she hides her head and continues to haul ass down the corridor. Some of the SHIELD agents who are still up bump into her as she pushes past them. She can hear their concerned voices asking if everything is all right but she ignores them. She finds a secluded spot in a hallway next to the workout area, and lets it all out.

For the first time in what feels like ages, Natasha cries. Hot tears run generously down her face, soaking her shirt and staining her cheeks red. She tries to squelch her sobs, but a few still manage to escape her throat and echo through the empty hall. She doesn't like feeling vulnerable and she hates crying. It makes her look weak, something the infamous Black Widow most definitely is not. Is she? She can't really tell, and she thinks that there's a lot she isn't very certain about anymore.

Time passes. Eventually her sobbing ceases. She slowly climbs to her feet, eager to get back to her room and crash for as long as Maria Hill will let her, when she suddenly picks up on a noise coming from the other side of the wall. She thinks she can hear someone grunting, almost as though they're in pain. She does some investigating and ends up in the workout room, engaging in a rigorous combat routine. It's the man she'd seen in the window, the one with the metal arm.

She watches, mesmerized, as he moves. His muscles flex beneath his shirt as he goes through the motions. His movements are swift, agile, fluid, almost as though he is dancing an intricate yet deadly dance. As she watches his performance, she feels an unexplainable pull towards him. It's like an inexplicable urge to jump in and join his dance, like she belongs there, like she is the missing piece needed to complete his deadly waltz. Before she realizes what she's doing, she calls out to him.

"Hey big guy." He freezes at the sound of her voice, going rigid. He jerks his head around to look at her. She gives him a small smile. "You're looking good. Mind if I join you?"

He gives her a bewildered stare. She shrugs. It seemed like an appropriate thing to say.

"Just trying to lighten the mood," she mumbles.

Clearly he is not amused. He goes to leave but she blocks the entryway. She feels slightly bad, since she hates when people do that to her, but for reasons she can't explain she doesn't want him to go.

"Hang on a minute, big guy." She doesn't have much humor left today and it shows in her voice. Her words are raspy and dry, almost like sandpaper. She imagines the dark circles are really accentuating her eyes this evening. "I've only just got here. I was hoping there'd be somebody I could do a little one-on-one with."

He fixes her with a hard glare, but she stays put, giving him her most convincing smile. He obviously doesn't buy it, because he squints at her and she can see the faintest bit of concern on his hardened face. It suddenly occurs to her that not two minutes ago she was bawling her eyes out and it probably shows on her face.. She's terrified for a moment that he'll say something but instead he just mutters, "I've got places to be."

She can tell he's not in the mood, but she presses him further. "It's pretty late," she says. "I'm sure you can fit a few matches into your busy schedule." She sees his eyes narrow.

"No." He says icily.

"One match," she asks quickly. She doesn't know why she's so desperate for him to stay, but she's not giving up. "Just one match and you won't have to hear from me for the rest of the week. That's fair, right?"

"Look Natalia, I can't—" He starts to say, then stops himself. She stares at him.

"How do you know my name?" she asks. He ducks away from her question, looking frustrated, and fires back: "Look, if I give you one match will you leave me alone?"

Her mind is spinning. She's never met him before but he knows her name – her _real _name. The one she used all those years ago throughout her time in the red room. She doesn't know what to say, so she just nods. Moments later they are on the sparring mat exchanging a series of blows.

She has to admit, he's good. _Very _good. All of his strikes are perfectly balanced, calculated and quick, and she can even feel herself breaking a sweat. If this were a real fight, she thinks, she might actually be in a bit of trouble right now. But she finds that although he's an incredibly skilled fighter she somehow naturally deflects all of his blows like it's a dance the two have rehearsed many times. He blocks her punches and she dodges his strikes as though they are completely in sync. The fluidity of their movements is almost meditative, calming, and she can tell he thinks so too.

He anticipates her attacks before she even makes them, quick to raise a hand to block her foot mere seconds before she thinks to swing it at him. She wonders how he can predict her so well. She looks at his face, trying to get a read on him but is surprised to find that his eyes have lit up with in a blue fury that she couldn't even begin to describe. The intensity of his gaze stops her stone cold for a mere second, but that second is all he needs.

Her body slams against the sparring mat and he is on top of her, pinning her to the floor. She stares at him and he returns her intense gaze. Nobody says a word. She swears she can hear their hearts beating.

"You," she whispers evenly. "I know you." He keeps his eyes locked on her but she can see something rise in them, something akin to hope. "Who _are _you?" She asks. She watches as the light dies out in his gaze and he shifts his weight off of her.

"I'm just a soldier." He says. "No one you need to be concerned with." He walks out, and she sits in the middle of the room, somehow feeling even more hollow than she had before.

…..

…..

Life just had to keep fucking with him.

He makes it to his quarters and slams the door shut behind him, immediately grabbing his table lamp and throwing it to the floor. It shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. He crushes the pieces beneath his heel until they're nothing but dust.

Damn it. God damn it. Why did this have to happen? He'd been so close to accepting the way things were. He'd been so close to _moving on. _But now, here he is, old wounds gaping open, bleeding all over the floor. Heartbreak constricting his throat and piercing a hole through his chest.

He could tell by her face that she'd been crying. He doesn't know why, but something tells him it has something to do with him and that's enough to make him wish he were dead. He let her go so that she didn't have to feel any more pain. He let her go so that she could be _happy._ But it looked like no matter what he did, _she_ was the one who suffered.

A flash of red blinds him. He puts his metallic fist through the wall.

Leo, in an attempt to make him suffer, had wiped Natasha's mind over and over again. His teammates had been able to revive all of her memories except those she had of him. They were willing to put her through more mental torture just so she could remember who he was, but he'd had them walk. He wasn't going to subject her to any more pain, especially not for him. He knew how it felt. At the time, he thought he'd made the right choice.

Now, he's not so sure.

He remembers a conversation he once had with her where he'd let it slip that he didn't want their history together to, as he had put it, "make her feel _obligated_ to anything." Natalia was always patient with him, but that night she had snapped.

"_What _is it going to take to make you realize that I _want _this, that I _want _to be with you?" She'd demanded, burning a hole through him with those intense green eyes of hers. "When I kiss you, it isn't an act of kindness. Why can't you see that?"

For a moment he hadn't said anything. Then: "I want to be worth it," he'd whispered hoarsely. "I want to be worth all the trouble you go through for me, Natalia. Right now, I'm just not."

She'd fallen apart right in front of him then, finally understanding just how broken he truly was. "What kind of self-loathing does it take," she'd whispered quietly, "to think like that? What demons are you fighting, James? What battle are you losing?"

He'd avoided her gaze like the plague. "I…" he'd begun, voice cracking, "I want to tell you, Natalia. I want to tell you _so_ bad… but—"

She'd had his face in her hands then, bright green pools staring directly into his soul. "Then _tell _me." She'd pleaded. "Please _tell _me, James."

He'd closed his eyes and pulled her in close, resting his forehead against hers. "Not tonight, Natalia." He'd whispered. "Not tonight."

He wonders now if, subconsciously, he'd been trying to push her away all along. He's never considered himself worthy of her attention, let alone her love. He flashes back to her face from earlier this evening, blotchy and red from tears. A dull ache settles in his chest. He'd give anything to have her in his arms right now, whispering endless apologies in her ear while burying his face in her wild, red hair.

Red.

He hates that fucking color.

Nothing else summarized his life better than that one infuriating color. The brief moments of passion he'd shared, the color of the snow back in the days when he'd been more of a machine than a man. The fury in his eyes. All of it had been shaded in red.

He chokes back pitifully sobs as he thinks about all the mistakes he's made. His entire life he's been pushing her away, and now that she's gone he desperately wants her back. But deep down, he thinks, he deserves this too.

Hours pass. He eventually falls into a dreamless sleep.

He remembers a time when she would have been curled up next to him.

He remembers when she was _his._


End file.
